


Tired and tried

by SometimesTheyWriteFanFics_9497



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Witcher (tv)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Eventual Unapologetic Fluff, Fix-It, Geralt Of Rivia Needs To Use Actual Words, Geralt of Rivia has feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Jeskier, M/M, No Beta We Die For SPARTA, Oblivious Jeskier, Panic Attacks, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Wise G-old Dragon, pun intended, sad Jeskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SometimesTheyWriteFanFics_9497/pseuds/SometimesTheyWriteFanFics_9497
Summary: “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”Jeskier didn’t know what to do, in all honesty the moment the words had left the Witchers mouth he had lost most, if not all control over what little restraint he had left in him.  It was strange.  The story was over.  The white wolf didn’t even look at him, something that only made his cheeks burn and limbs tremble.“I’ll just go and ask the others about the story,” he said hardly recognizing his own voice in his ears, to low for dandelion the womanizer as he had been called once to many, too quiet for Jeskier the wandering bard, yet it was his.  It belonged to Julian. “Um, yeah I’ll just, I’ll see you around Geralt.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Passed Yeniffer
Comments: 47
Kudos: 730





	1. The fool

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

Jeskier didn’t know what to do, in all honesty the moment the words had left the Witchers mouth he had lost most, if not all control over what little restraint he had left in him. It was strange. The story was undeniably over. The white wolf didn’t even look at him, something that only made his cheeks burn and limbs tremble.

“I’ll just go and ask the others about the story,” he said hardly recognizing his own voice in his ears, to low for dandelion the womanizer as he had been called once to many, too quiet for Jeskier the wandering bard, yet it was his. It belonged to Julian. “Um, yeah I’ll just, I’ll see you around Geralt.”

He turned around pulling at the collar of his shirt, breathless in a way that reminded him of when he had been cursed by the djinn, by Geralt’s careless temper. Geralt always made him light headed, though usually he hadn't minded it much. It was strange. The man simply put wasn't good with what humans, elves, and other creatures considered emotions. He was rather inept at it all as the young man knew all too well, except rage, which Jeskier blamed mostly on the isolation the witchers had been keenly adapt and even cozy with. It reminded him of the fables that Witchers can't feel, and even if it were a lie, he understood why it was said.

He stood for a moment, hands on either side straightening his form, grounding himself he likened it, something that he did often enough that even his companion on better days acknowledged it with a curt grunt or two. It helped and he needed it possibly more than he'd ever needed it in his entire life. He was set on regaining what composure he deemed appropriate, and it had seemed to be working until the tip of his fingers grazed upon the dagger concealed at his hip, silky smooth under the layers of wardrobe. His mouth fell open. In a frenzy he removed it, although firmly in his grip, so tight he was distantly reminded the markings of it would surely transfer from it onto him.

“Goodbye,” he muttered as he threw the blade blindly over his shoulder, wincing at the noise it made. “Geralt of Rivia.” 

He didn't realize he was running or the distance he had crossed until he had struck a rock and toppled over unceremoniously, hands covering his face out of instinct only regretting it as the pain of his palms being cut open at odd angles against the gravel hit. He stayed like that for a moment longer than any self respecting man might, bleeding hands cradled onto his chest, staining the blue fabric on him, dripping onto stone.

The sun was much lower than it had been the last time he cared to look at it, realizing in his hurry how he had taken so little with him, not yet thinking clear enough to remember his lute and sleeping cot, merely a bag, his least useful one at that, filled with random oils, a few crushed herbs which Geralt hadn't the space to carry, and a simple albeit cheap change of clothing that his companion at the time had insisted upon.

Biting his lip he forced himself to sit on the uneven ground, his leg throbbing and his hands still bleeding something fierce. He had always been so careful around Geralt, something that even when ignored couldn't be belittled by the fact, that being he never allowed himself to be overly injured, or rather bleed freely around the white wolf. Thin blood as the clerics had told his mother, something that couldn't be fixed by magic that normally otherwise could have been, if not for the fact that he had been born under a solar eclipse, a black sun, something that usually meant death for those of noble blood, even for the men. Mutation.

Illness.

He yanked off his jacket and after a moment seceded in ripping the sleeve half off the shoulder, something he couldn't have done if not for poor stitching he had patched it with when buying the retired garment, that at the time had been missing most of its buttons. The image of Geralt wrapping gauze around a gash of sore skin played in his mind, though he had only seen him do it a few times in their travels when the man had run low on his potions and the aid of magic, he copied it the best that he could, tearing with his teeth at the fabric until his jaw hurt and both hands were more or less covered. His leg still ached, heart beat of its own, and the bump he found sang doubly in loud garish waves, though it wasn't broken as far as he could tell and with what little mind he had, he smiled.

He wiggled into his spare shirt with ease, already decided that he had little use for a jacket covered in blood, ignoring the fresh source still seeping. He stood a bit strained and stared down, and before he could even think twice about it he tore loose each button, lip trembling as each one was torn away. The important ones. He hadn't allowed himself to think about what exactly had happened, even then he only slightly allowed the full extent of it to sink in.

The red one with copper lining he had bought passing through a town as they had been meeting a potential contract, the Witcher as always disappearing into the crowd as if saying without words how this may be were we part ways again, though he had found him an hour later in a pub. The black one with the Cintra seal had been something he had found left under the foot of a bed at one of the various inns they had stayed at, one of the times they couldn't afford or simply couldn't get an extra room or bed so short notice, he remembered how neither of them wanted to take the bed, his reason being that Geralt was exhausted and needed what little luxury they could happen upon, and the Witchers he supposed were based on the fact that he had been the one demanding a bed and roof that evening, and as always too stubborn they both settled on the floor, and how he woke up the next morning exactly where he didn't want, cuddled onto the pillows and mattress. The silver one from a bar keep that had learned his intention of repairing the otherwise tarnished piece. 

He tucked them into his pants pocket then began walking.

He couldn’t stomach the idea of having to see or be seen by Geralt, and with that he decided against his better judgment almost instantly to go the path that would make the most difference, or distance considering no one else would likely traverse it again. The dwarven path. He didn’t regret it even as his leg grew more pained, or as his hands were forced to cling to rock for some resemblance of stability, or when he shuffled across the face of the mountain where the boarding had broken and the wise old man had seemingly died. 

He pondered the golden dragon, something so other worldly that a Witcher considered it myth, a fairytale-splendid writing material on a better day. He went over the words the dragon had said to the mage and to Geralt as he watched quietly, "you will lose her." and how frankly relieved he had been when hearing it, knowing that the great white wolf had no permanent footing with Yennifer of Vengerburg, in the sense that destiny held no stakes in their constant on and off tiffs, that he himself had so long played ignorant of. 

Days before at the camp, one evening while the fire still burned he had been sitting, composing the lyrics of a new song, or rather attempting lamely. The man had sat beside him and Jeskier had gleefully welcomed the distraction, sitting his lute against his leg. They had spoke of their adventures, mostly the young bard listening and taking note of the more bizarre ones, then retelling those of his Witcher, as he often let slip though luckily never in the company of said his, the man not once batting an eye at the mistake.

Once one to many stories were shared by both they fell into silence.

With a yawn he began to shove himself up when the man gently grabbed at the cuff of his jacket. "Wait, don’t go just yet.” he paused. “If you wouldn't mind some advice."

"Didn't happen to hear what I had been writing, did you?" he grinned then sat back down with a thud. "I’ll have you know I never look a gift horse in the mouth, yet I am a tad protective of works in progress. Which is totally fair, I'll add since they’ve yet to become public."

"It is nothing of the sort, though I might help you with that if you wish," the old man looked at the flame, contemplative, then nodded his head as if he’d agreed on a decision. "I know a lot of things, perhaps it’s the gift of a long life? Or perhaps not. Regardless I mean to help you, to ease your mind as it seems to be at odds with your mouth."

"Who am I to say no?" Jeskier laughed, leaning closer as he often did when he trusted a person's aura. He supposed that was half the reason he failed to take a liking to Yeniffer. "Tell me then, as I am always interested in such things concerning myself."

The man stood up with the ease of a young boy, smiling softly. "What you seek most will find you."

He stared at the man, mind jarring around loose in his skull, unsure of it.

"What does that mean?" he nearly fell over following the man with his eyes as he began to walk away. "Could you try and narrow it down a bit. I'm not exactly selfless you know."

Once he reached the end of the trail he threw himself at the ground, smiling wide and toothy, the material on his hands smearing the floor of the tunnel with blood about the size of coins. He wiped it away till there was hardly any discoloration, forgetting or not noticing the same trail left untouched along the side of the mountain.

By the time night fell the gravity of the situation fell, albeit slowly. He cursed himself as he did what little he could to start a fire, a pile of brittle twigs at hand that he had searched for during the last speckles of dusk, then just as swiftly abandoned the notion and the pile. The insides of his bag spilled, regathered then spilled again. He didn’t even notice he was crying. 

He decided to keep moving a little longer, carefully so as each step seemed more downhill than the last. He had easily cut his journey a day, half a day, he couldn’t remember perfectly only that the point of it had been stressed before. The air was chilled and hummed not uncomfortably he noted, yet carried with it the distant smell of rain, petrichor as Geralt often corrected, honestly he wouldn’t have associated it with rain not in the slightest, the strange musky scent that permeated from out of nowhere, the ground according to Geralt. 

He stopped when he kicked something, a circle of burned wood, or rather what was left of it. He spun himself looking around, fear, surely he hadn’t stumbled into someone else's camp, he reached for his dagger, the one that had been gifted to him out of annoyance and that he usually kept fashioned to his hip, only to realize two things, one that he had thoughtlessly given it back to the man that had spared it to him, and secondly, it had been their camp a day or so prior.

If he closed his eyes he could see where they were, the hot glow of flame warming the memory, the burning smell of the creature that the Witcher had singled out as friendly, or at the very least usually harmless. His friend, one sided as he had been made aware sitting happily at an arms length away, his white hair recently cleaned, and without subtly staring holes into Yens face, and body.

He sat down by the fire pit, in perfect way of a clearing that held the best moonlight and quickly rummaged through the herbs that had been left to him. He knew surprisingly little when considering how long he had been with the other, in terms of what names belonged to what, and the certainty of what not to use as a human when it came to reactions, possible over dosing, yet he wasn't entirely devoid either, he knew even though it hadn't been necessarily stated out loud, that the man didn't leave him with anything directly dangerous, as he wouldn't allow him to carry any substance he had collected from a hunt when it was toxic to humans. It helped that he used one before quite a few times.

Small yellow flowers in a cosmetic jar.

Saint John's wort.

He undid his bandages one at a time, wincing as the dried blood tugged at his skin, the cool air hitting it, reinvigorating the spot almost immediately. Standing blood. He placed a mound of the crushed flowers and leaf's spreading it gently over the wounds, redid the binding as best as he could, then doing the same to the other hand.

\---

He began falling asleep at the base of a mostly hollow tree trunk, he imagined briefly without much fear of what might have done it, his things behind his back as a makeshift pillow. The deserted camp a short while away.

“Couldn’t imagine that that’s very comfortable?”

Jeskier jumped, eyes as round as wheels. The light of a distant fire, yet he couldn’t see who spoke, and was still dazed by slumber enough not to recognize it. “Who the hell?” he cowered more into the space behind him, the tree, something that if the Witcher had seen he would have surely disapproved, angry even at cornering oneself. “I don’t have anythi-I’m not alone you’d better leave.”

“Daft bard.” the Dwarf walked closer, hands up in the air as if approaching an animal. The normally loud spoken brute somber and fixed. “Figured we’d run into you or the wolf of Rivia eventually, but couldn’t quite say this soon. You covered a lot of ground since this morning. You took the broken path to make it this far, didn't you?”

“Oh.” Jeskier squinted his eyes then let out a breath he hadn’t known himself to be holding. “Oh it’s only you.” he paused lifting himself to his knees, biting down the bark of pain that raised when he did so. “Yes I believe I did. Um, less people would be traveling it, figured anyways, why not.”

The dwarf turned around and began walking towards the orange flickering path, the camp they had set themselves clearly reusing what Jeskier had decided against. He stopped when he noticed he wasn’t being followed. “Daft bard either you join us, or you can wait for whatever hollowed that hole you’re sulking in too return, but I think you’d like to know we might have taken a few of your belongings when you disappeared.” 

“You what?” he leaped up with a smile, ignoring how if they hadn’t run into each other how likely it was more of a theft than a kindness. “That might possibly be the best news I’ve had all day. Wouldn’t by chance have brought my lute would you?”


	2. Wistful bleeding

Jaskier smiled down at the slender form in his hands, cupping around the neck and bottom as he slowly lifted it, as gentle as one might hold a newborn babe. He even loved it as such. Loud and glorious at times as if cast from the same mold, cured by the same fire so to speak. To deny it he settled easily, would be to deny himself.

The perfect lover he had more than once said half heartedly, much to the annoyance or rather dull acknowledgment of those around him. A joke by all means, that was all it had ever been, though admittedly the longer he carried it on, kept it going as it were the more he considered it true, in an odd, simple way at least. 

She was undeniably loyal even at his worst, bearing witness to all his shenanigans. Trists. Failings. Jealous or submissive husbands, lustful or vindictive wives, closeted clergymen and those of higher rank, and of course his own long winded bouts with the green eyed monster. Steadfast, wickedly so with a twisted sense of humor, one as sharp as a knife that might kill an Alghoul and still have life in it, whilst cheerfully aiding in his confessions with skill enough so they might appear shallow, fictitious, and without the need of further learning. 

She shared all his greater symphonies, and baffled begudgments behind it all, and yet willingly offered steady at his embrace, encompassing his body as he hers. An extension of his soul he wagered, if it were to dwell anywhere not unwanted. 

Wanted of course being key.

“Are you almost done?” said the bald headed dwarf as the bard knew him. “As much as I’d like to understand the concept of being reunited with a beloved object, if only for the sake of Yarpen and his axe-simply, watching you now, I regret not leaving it when I’d the chance.”

“Have some compassion de- what’s your name again? Oh bother, I’m sure it’ll come back to me in little time.” he sat down and crossed his legs, almost groaning at the sudden warmth where he had formerly had none. “Mere moments ago I imagined myself forever parted from her,” he paused as if wiping away a tear. “Can you imagine that?”

“If I burn it, I wouldn’t have to.” the dwarf erupted in laughter, in turn causing the young man to quickly set aside the lute with a note as low as a whimper. “Oh off with it! I don't have it in me to do that you eejit, not yet anyhow.”

“You’d make a fine story teller then.” Jaskier smiled, albeit unconvincingly with worry clearly written on his face. “Quite, fantastic really. Had me for a go.”

The young man couldn’t help but be grateful when one of the others took over the conversation. A clean shaved blonde, with two hideous scars on either side of his face, as if something great had attempted to rip the skin clean off. 

He considered it a distraction, one allowing himself to actually breathe. 

The camp was alive, the few standing more at ease and with mirth than those he had been previously surrounded with, though it had hardly mattered. He hummed as they added more wood, watched idly as the flame died a little then hungrily lick and bite the new offerings laid bare, flickering with glee and renewed life. 

Hunger.

It was all to familiar, and despite himself light headed as he was, he simply couldn’t help but think of Geralt in that moment. 

Roach stood tethered to a small tree about twenty feet away from where they had decided to rest for the night, many moons since passed, the nearest town still a day's journey. The sun only recently set leaving charcoal brimming closer and closer to the horizon. He could see his companion at the edge of his vision loitering beside the horse, calloused hands slowly patting along side her neck, calming her huffing and personal temper, and to the best of his figure softly speaking to her.

She wasn’t so easily turned off or upsetted by many things, something Jaskier knew all too well, the only true exception nearly capable of it from his experience, was of course being when her schedule went interrupted. Another creature of habit. Not even bandits or a drowner really bothered Roach.

They had stopped much earlier than usual, though neither he nor the Witcher chose to speak of it.

The first thing he did beside sprawling out his bed roll was unlacing his boots, something he hardly ever did when on the road. Habit was habit and to be frank he had long preferred to sleep in them, when at any moment they could pack up and leave at the command of Geralt, that of whom had enacted that right more than a beggars handful.

He hastily looked away focusing himself on a loose strand of his bedding, wrapping it and unwrapping it in his fingers almost compulsively.

“Don’t suppose we could stay in town for a few days once we get there?” 

He heard Roach snort then the heavy rustle of footsteps approaching, which he had learned early on that Witchers hardly ever made such noise normally, unless of course when done on purpose. An improvement from the times that the bard had to stifle his heart and throat at the seemingly sudden appearance of the man. His dignity and more private moments at fault.

“I’ll do extra shows so you won’t even have to front the bill this time.” he clasped his hands like one might do to pray, the smallest tug of a smile at his lips. “It’ll be my treat.”  


The Witcher raised an eyebrow, sat at the opposite side, yet said nothing.

“Geralt!” 

“Yes Jaskier?”

“Don’t be such a tetra titted tosser.”

The pair fell into silence, or at least the closest thing that the Witcher knew of it since the bard had become a part of his travel. 

Geralt kept himself busy so much so he had almost not realized when the bard had finally stopped humming and playing his songs, or when the fire nearly died. 

The witcher grunted and as he did, it sprung back to life. Elder tongue. 

“I wish I could do that,” Jaskier nodded to himself, his voice strained. “Imagine it, me with something useful instead of-” he faltered unable to say it, he couldn’t say it, and if he did, he didn’t know where it was he'd start. “Music and chit chat.” he cringed at his own words.

Geralt snapped his eyes at the bard, surprised to see the man wasn’t asleep though he laid on his back nearly motionless, with his instrument already put inside its case.  


“It isn’t all well and good.” the Witcher said, eyes narrowed at the boy. “When it isn’t something that someone choses willingly.”

Jaskier peeked at the man from the corner of his eye. He was being studied, that was the best he could describe it. Geralt and his yellow and unwavering stare. 

When its something unchosen, that was it and according to the Witcher, the figurative line drawn in the dirt, permeating the air with its dreaded sing song, and at the end of the day that was what separated them, though in reality it didn’t as well as Geralt had believed. One sided. 

Jaskier wasn’t untouched by destiny, he wanted nothing more than to spill that knowledge, more than he’d ever wanted before with anybody beside his Witcher, but he couldn’t.

People killed for less.

Entire genorations of noble blood spilt in high ivry towers and in flooded basements.

People killed for less.

“Geralt?” the young man whispered. “I had a funny thought.”

“Huh?” 

Jaskier rolled onto his side and frowned. “Do you have insomnia?”

\---

“It’s Zoltan.” the dwarf said over his shoulder, otherwise still entertained by his kinsmen. The dwarfs gravelly voice bring Jaskier back to the present, and away from where he would rather be. “And this is Theo. Anybody else you’ll have to look them in the eyes and ask them yourself. I’m not the welcoming committee bard, so you’d best learn and remember as you go.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Jaskier nodded, wrapping his arms around his knees, again be it subconsciously or not inching closer to the heat as he often did during the colder nights, the high altitude only making it worse, he realized distantly. “Thank you Zoltan, Theo, and Yarpen wherever you are, and, and the others as well, which I promise to make eye contact with eventually. Thank you.”

Despite what many believed of him, Jaskier were no fool, he could sense their eyes upon him like picking meat from a bone, something he had became familiar with when with Geralt. The man had been a savant.

He didn’t bother looking at them, any of them rather he kept his eyes trained on the fire, its dancing and flailing limbs as his mind wandered wordlessly. Jaskier often drew comparisons of those and of things that impacted his life, whether be it a flower to a beautiful maiden, the sludge at the butt of his heel to a spiteful ex lover, a faithful wife to a piece of varnished wood, or the destructive, lustful, contented and indifferent blaze of yellow, to none other than his Witcher, a term not yet entirely forbidden.

“Like you we traveled the dwarven way, a different one then you.” said Theo breaking Jaskier from his trance. “Don’t suppose there's a reason why you traveled alone? Well there is obviously, but we don’t need to speak of it.”

“Obviously?” the young man knotted his brow. “I’m not sure I follow you just yet-”

Jaskier flinched cutting himself off as a streak of liquid silver cut the sky, in an instant casting the world around them into light that faded not before printing the image behind his lids, and birthing within less than a heartbeat the downpour.

\---

Jaskier was unabashedly relieved as the rain halted them, and whatever conversation that would have happened otherwise, pelting the fire unfortunately in the process, and ultimately forcing all of them to their respective shelters. 

The dwarves by means beyond his own guessing had somehow came into possession of none other than Yeniffers tent, and had successfully made off with it as they had done with his belongings. Zoltan hollored at him with the occasional upsinity, insisting Jaskier inside as the dwarves hurried their way, carrying with them loose belongings. The young man refused rather quickly, though he would be lying if he were to say the offer hadn’t been tempting, even when knowing another lay readily available within a few feet, adequate if not a bit smaller, after all he knew all too well, surely hers would fair best against the wind and rain as it appeared blatantly the magic she had used had not at all faded. 

The door gaped open and revealed a space inside much larger than the outside of it. Red oriental carpeting stretched the floor seamlessly, from edge to edge, to the side there was a large dresser, caramelized dark, jars of dried flowers and other colorful oddities lined across it in no particular order that the bard could tell, other than the purpose of looking nice. Lastly his sight fell upon the one thing he had almost trained himself against. 

The bed, or more specifically the fur blankets in disarray. His stomach churned.

He may not have seen it, but from the moment Geralt had entered the tent trailing after her like a love sick fool, he knew very well what had transpired.

“You can’t honestly want to sleep in there?” said Theo, raising his voice above the howling wind, taking up where Zoltan had left. “We’ve already stuffed it nearly to the brim. You plan to sleep with storage?”

He handed the man his lute with watery eyes, saying without saying he wished it not to be in danger of warping or any other tragedy that might befall it in his bed, after all they had brought his beloved without her case, something he hadn’t quite figured out.

“I can’t.” Jaskier started, already turning on his heel. “I won’t have myself there.” he nearly cringed at the heat of his own voice. “I’d just rather be by myself.”  


“Hate the mage that much?” the dwarf looked at the bed knowingly then at the boy. “I underestimated the depths of your disapproval.”

“And what of it?” Jaskier all but yelled, blaming his lack of composure on the heavy fabric clinging to his back and shoulders. It was all becoming a little to much. “I’m entitled to that, the choice of where to sleep. Hang my head if you will. It's not a tree to start with so you'll have to just respect my decision. It’ll do.”

Theo nodded his head, a strange look all the while in his eyes, lip twitching as if many words had been pooling at the tip of his tongue. He didn’t speak of it though.  


He didn't mention the smear of blood.

\---

The rain sliced at him as he ducked shuffling his way in, realizing how just as promised only the slightest and oddly his body shape of space awaited him. His an orphaned pitch that stood at about shoulder height, green spiny canvas held by bound stick, luckily enough placed on a pillar of high setting dirt, quite suitable for any of the others he whimpered, though for a human, even on the petit side as he was often told, it came off a tad snug. A blanket fort like a child would make.

Jaskier rubbed his eyes with the palm of hands, the pain that had been previously in the back of his mind making itself once again the forefront of his thoughts, as the blood that had seeped through the banages mixed with the tears he had yet to realize were falling. 

How was it fair he questioned staring at what he knew was the angry red, an ugly red that coated his palms and began to lightly trickle down his wrist. How was any of this fair. It made him recall the hateful words that his father had once spoken to him. "Life isn't fair boy, if it was then you would never of been born at all." just one of them many things that cut at his soul, little nicks that slowly dug pieces from him, addding and collecting amoungst themselves, until his heart bled almost as much as his hands did.

Jaskier had thought that he had forfietied himself from such assults, built the walls up high enough with mock indifferce and foax vanity, that none could hurt him again, or so he believed, nearly until the latest of volley were sent. "If life would give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands."

He broke down. 

The pressure that had been crawling and scratching his ribs finally tore loose of his skin, muscle and bone in the most natural and unwanted way. The sound he made was primal and stranger to even his ears. Under different circumstances it would have rung lude into the night. 

He cried like the inside of his brain had forgotten any and all other vocabulary, and out of instinct filled the void however possible. He curled up into himself until his knees were pressed flat to his chest. He couldn’t move, could hardly breathe and when he did it had only been so he wouldn’t quite pass out.

The only thing he could feasibly think of it, when he could do as simple a task, was more or less a double edged sword caught between his wanton panting. No one would judge him nor think of him any differently, which was all well and good if only it hadn’t meant one thing. One crucial damned thing. For the first time in the longest while, and he didn't know what to make of it, he was totally and completely alone.

He bit down on his lip forcing his face to the ground. Panic. Lungs zapped of air.

His mind was a nasty thing at times, he mused. Creative his tutors had said. He saw against black the image of the bed chamber, of ashen skin raising and falling with baited breath, over and over, long olive legs wrapped around the center of his attention, daydream, nightmare. Tall white scars tracing up and down marred skin along the curve of his lower back, white hair dancing up and down with every thrust. It wasn't fair, he sobbed unsure of where his sudden lack of tactfulness had come.  


He could almost sense him.

“Jaskier!?”

He lifted his head unable to speak, gaping like a fish at the fluttering darkness of his tent, saliva completely drained like his mouth had been stuffed with cotton, as a sharp nasua crept through his abdomen and pierced spots behind his eyes. 

“Jaskier!” the phantom wailed again, he was sure of it.

Everything went fuzzy. He swallowed.

“Geralt?”

The world faded to black.


	3. King of swords

He watched as Yenniffer disappeared around the bend of the mountain path, her ire still hot in his mind and the phantom of her lilac and gooseberries itching his nose as they disappeared along with the enchantress.

“What you’re missing is still out there,” said Borch again interrupting the moment with the faintest of smiles cursing his thin lips. Despite his form the man appeared suddenly less human to the Witcher, something that only dug into his skin as yet another prophecy was spewed onto his uninterested ears. “I know it, and you know it just as well as I do, regardless of what you allow yourself to say.” he paused squinting his eyes knowingly, another thing the man constantly did. “It’s your destiny, and it has followed you.”

Destiny, Geralt tested the word in his mouth, rolling it over with his tongue. 

The concept wasn’t new, in fact it had been something berated on him since his earliest memories of life, his mother's abandonment quickly smeared over by the easy hands of fate, Vesemir’s overall acceptance towards Kaer Morhen and becoming a Witcher preordained and without the need of silly questions, even whiny Mousesake and his constant rattling of responsibility and unknowable cosmic retaliation had after all had been in the name of destiny, as if it were a god to be worshipped.

He turned away as Borch left shaking his head like a disappointed father.

He knew he still wasn’t alone even as the footsteps of the dragon were finally dampened, then gone, and despite himself that knowledge was both comforting as much as it was absolutely and beyond question irritating. He could hear Jaskier somewhere not far behind him, his breathing and his heart rate relatively steady, almost but not quite at their normal, something he learned to easy to recognize, that and the way he closed and opened his mouth with a snap as if unsure of himself, for one of the first times in a long time. 

He was nervous-he always spoke when he was nervous.

“Phew! What a day!” Jaskier beamed, a tad forcefully he would later note, as the young bard had a serious distaste for anything quiet, a habit that had been both a blessing and a curse to the bard, and to himself throughout their travels together. 

He grinded his teeth slowly, both hands instantly balled into fists at his sides, turning his already white skin porcelain at the knuckles. He was boiling and he knew it well enough. Rage or temper, he wasn’t sure which one it was, of course many people would coin it as the same when it came to his kind. Stop it Jaskier, he pleaded in his head without voice, for a moment even wanting the intrusive connection like the sort Yennifer would use on him without permission, so at least what he wanted would be known, leave me be, say no more of it, he chided, understand won’t you? Just don’t. Please.

“I imagine you’re probably-”

It was quick like cutting a string, or ripping out a loose strand of hair.

“Damnit Jaskier!” he snarled more than spoke spinning on his heels, causing the bard to flinch back, something for reasons beyond himself only made it worse. Him worse. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?” 

“Well, that's not fair.” the young man whispered unevenly. “It just isn’t.”

The bard was folding in on himself, becoming smaller, fragile even as the Witcher grew more irritated. He recognized it as something animals did, though didn’t linger on it.

“The child surprise, the djinn, all of it!” he paused raking in another breath he hadn’t realized he had needed until then. “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

Jaskier went as white as a sheet, and in that moment Geralt actually allowed himself to properly see his companion. He watched it, whatever it was that went across the bards face, slow and painful like the spill of ink on a new piece of parchment, culminating in a harsh red that settled evenly below his eyes. Before he knew it, the bard was trembling something fierce. It didn’t sit well. 

It happened once to many.

Geralt looked away, it's what you do best Witcher, the ghost of a memory from a time before he had been cheered the butcher of Blaviken, look elsewhere if you are offended by what you might see, as it was your neglect that had hand. Tell me which lesser evil are you?

He fixed his eyes on the chasm below them, the yellowed stones and patches of dead greenery laid out for miles. He realized absently that he probably wouldn’t die if he were to fall, jump even, and that he’d be met by a different sort of silence, instead of the shallow thudding that nestled in his ears, growing more and more erratic from the young man.

Thud, thud, THUD.

“I’ll just go and ask the others about the story,” he said in a voice to meek to belong to his bard. His, he echoed, it didn’t belong to his Jaskier. “Um, yeah I’ll just, I’ll see you around Garelt.”

Which is it Witcher?

The Witcher snapped his head towards the bard, that of whom was standing back facing him, doing something with his hands that he couldn’t quite see. Jaskier stayed like that for a moment until he began moving his hands up and down his torso pulling at the edges of his jacket, something that Geralt had seen the young man do a great many times, usually in the presence of an angry husband or disgruntled audience, hardly ever because of him.

He was moving before he knew it, a single step then half way through another when he was stopped. The bard moved quickly as if he had been burned or bitten, clutching at something like its mere existence meant harm to his very life.

“Goodbye,” the young man said in a voice that only few could hear, tossing whatever he’d been holding over his shoulder in a flash of quick silver landing by his feet. “Geralt of Rivia.”  


Bile raised in his throat.

Jaskier bolted which he was only slightly aware of, instead he found himself unbelievably transfixed. The dagger was silver and curved at the end, pink coral and turquoise embellishments dancing along its narrow sheath, the hilt was rounded and carved in an odd dialect of elder tongue, something that very few in their travels could read, most importantly Jaskier- It was flashy and out right perfect for the bard.

It had been spring when he had gifted it to him, and only two days after a drowner had almost killed the human, and would have he realized if not for him partially losing his mind and slashing anything that wasn’t the young man. 

Jaskier had been terrified, the scent of fear boiling off his skin like a fever even days later, sickly sweet and in waves from the other side of their camp, as he huddled into himself and the wolf skin blanket that over time had become his. The Witcher knew that the young man was sure that he had finally had enough of him. Abandon him, as he always said he would in off handed ways. He hated that..

Fear of being alone.

“Jaskier.” his voice was more gruff than he had meant it. He grimaced. “I was thinking.”

The bard peered up, his nose slightly pink. “Yes, Geralt?”

He stared at Jaskier without speaking for what couldn’t have been more than five seconds to his companion, though since the contents of one of his vials hadn’t yet worn off, to him it had been equivalent to minutes. 

The road had been harsh he decided, at least as of recently. the slightest bits of stubble growing where it usually was always clean cut, his boyish face at odds with it. It looked good, if not tired. His eyes were reddened. He had been crying again.

“I’ve decided that I won’t always be there to protect you.” he stopped for a moment startled. The bard had straightened his back, his eyes wide and his lips parted. One day I’m just going to leave you and that’ll be that, played in his head, and he instantly cursed himself understanding what his companion had thought of the few words he had used. “It’s for the best if you-”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen!” Jaskier bolted up shucking off his blanket. “I had been by roach and the next I-I wasn’t and then I don’t know. Please just forget it happened Geralt.” his stomach twisted as he listened. “Don’t say nothing for two whole days, not asking me to stay in that damned village you had had that contract with a day’s ride ago as you could have, then just drop this on me. Don’t. Just don’t.”

Jaskier stood shivering as a gust of wind went through the clearing, his entire body moving while staying still in place. Geralt slowly pushed himself up, bit the inside of his mouth then approached him. Six steps was all it took and within that time the bard had gone ghastly white.

“Please don’t do this to me,” he whimpered and closed his eyes. “Please.”

Hysterical panic he realized absently, it had happened before though far and few in-between, that and the urge to silence it, wrap his arms around him and ease him was always there, lingering in the back of his mind only hindered by the simple truth, Jaskier wasn’t just another body, another woman or man with a warm bed, he was carefree, open, the fool about to fall into nothing and without fear of it, he didn’t even have the sense to fear a mutant, and as far as Geralt had ever known he was completely and utterly despite his garish garb, only fancied himself with the company of women.

He couldn’t over step that bound.

The blanket piled on the ground fluttered as he lifted it and placed it around the bard. Jaskier gasped but didn’t open his eyes, fear still seeping from his skin like sap. 

Geralt reached down and pulled from his boot the dagger, it had been wrapped in red cloth.

“Jaskier calm down, please.”

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered again. “I screwed up. I always screw up. I’m sorry.”

Geralt grunted then carefully rested his hand on his shoulder lightly. “No Jaskier, I didn’t say things right. I won’t always be able to protect you, and I meant that. I needed to say it.” he paused lifting one of Jaskiers hands and letting go of his shoulder. “I want you to be able to, to be safe even when I am with you, or not.”

Jaskiers eyes snapped open as he sat the bundle in his hand. He blinked then looked down slightly confused, then with reassurance started undoing it. His face lit up, and Geralt ignored the pang in his chest.

“Why?” he started awestruck, eyes still watery. “When? Where did you find something like this!?” he blinked. “That damned village sold goods like this? That's why we stayed that long? It wasn’t because you were leaving me?”

“Yes.” he lied. “I bought it there.”  
\---

He bent down and picked it up, yellow dust clinging to it.

“Fuck.”  
\--

The campsite was at the verge of abandoned, the last few dwarves were packing their things and Yennifers tent was already gone. He wondered if it had just vanished into nothing as she often did leaving nothing but memory. 

He wasn't sure how long he had stayed by himself before he had decided to look for Jaskier, not to apologize he decided, rather to return his dagger and to offer his company for half a weeks journey down the mountain trail, knowing perhaps a little smugly that the young man would likely accept. 

He hoped that that would be apology enough.

He smiled as the bard would call it, the corners of his lips slightly lifted when his eyes landed on two close knitted tents he had thrown up for the both of them still standing, his own bag still lodged inside and a few of Jaskiers things laying about. 

It smelled of oak and sage.

Comfort.

"The woman left in a hurry." said Theo carrying a few odds and ends and gaining the Witchers attention. The Dwarf struggling to carry what he had. "Can't believe she didn't leave much behind."

"Yes." he deadpanned again glancing at where he had spent his night. "Magic does that."

Yennifer had been wrong as much as she’d been right he decided. What they had wasn't real, yet he hadn't wished for her love that day with the djinn, and or anything and everything that followed afterwards between the both of them, it had been a happy coincidence. Coincidence. Disingenuous at its core. She longed for what she would never have, just the same as he did, and together for a time at least, they helped each other forget.

He had at first wagered that their exchange was done, and found himself more than a little surprised when the dwarf continued.

"In such a hurry they did." Theo frowned purposely. "Couldn't imagine why."

"What?" Geralt peered down at the man with a raised brow. "What do you mean, they?"

He dropped what he was holding with a thud, blinking innocently at him as he leaned against the wooden beam of their shelter. "Anything that isn't human has incredible hearing. And stamina- not that you don't know." he paused mockingly. “There isn’t much that's happened these last few days that anybody here doesn't know about.”

"What did you mean by they?" he said as he looked at his and Jaskiers things. His instrument case sticking out and latched. "Who?"

He already knew that, and cursed himself as his skin went cold.

"The wise old dragon, and the human that up until a few hours ago proclaimed to be your bard." Theo picked up his things and began walking. "Up until a few hours ago we believed him. We understood why he'd bother saying such things like that."

"Hours?" he questioned ignoring the pang of guilt, and focused more on the anger bubbling in its place. "Hardly."

"Yes hours." the dwarf looked over his shoulder with a flash of distaste, his yellow hair covering most of his face. "He came running by and took a bag with him. Didn't even stop to say goodbye. Just one bag and kept going. He even left his lute. What's a bard without it? Sad."

The man never left without it.

"That idiot." he growled noticing even more eyes on him. "What way did he go?"

His friend was running blindly, upset, not himself, and he made it that way.

Let it happen.

"The same way we came from."

Theo and the other dwarves watched as the Witcher darted around taking things with him, grabbing lastly the bards case in such a frenzy he hadn't once noticed how light it was, which held from both the fact how he'd never carried it before, and it happened to be quite heavy by itself. 

He left everything else.


	4. Unrepentant Regrets

The smell of blood was overwhelming and had nearly caused Geralt to trip over himself more than once by time he’d finally caught wind of it. 

He hiked up everything he was carrying in a single movement, ignoring the sudden intrusive parallel of himself and that of a packing mule and broke into a full on sprint, not caring half as well as he should on how he looked, or if anyone had the pleasure of it.

His mind all the while somehow faster than his feet.

Everyone's blood was different once you became familiar with the person. It was no longer just iron, thick, and mucky, it was the very essence of the soul, the individual held and given away like the precise masterpiece that most claimed it to be- In this case hints of chamomile, honeydew, sage, sandalwood and rosemary. 

His face contorted as if he’d been struck once he came to a stop, breath dangerously hitched in his throat as if it became solid. Trapped. 

There was blood everywhere scattered across the trail, a few of the larger rocks reddish brown as if painted purposefully in it. The story of Hansel and Gretel ringing in his memory, as soured as most childhood novelties were. Bread crumbs. He could see the bard in his mind's eye, haplessly tripping and falling hands first out of instinct, the image painful, though not quite right. There was too much blood for just that Geralt realized, and worse still he couldn’t smell anything else above it. Anyone, or anything. Had the humans that had ambushed them over the dragon egg not all been killed? Geralt swallowed bitterly, the thought heavy on his tongue. Had any of them ran off or simply not joined in? Were they waiting? Was it-

His eyes wandered to the left without knowing at first what had beckoned his attention, then gleaming a spot of fabric so out of place it was, as if an entire piece of the sky had been sliced out and left in the dirt. It was a soft robin egg blue, and usually as enduring as the heavens, and as treasured as such.

He cursed under his breath as he crouched next to it, lingering for a moment, staring at the blood covered heap that had been one of Jaskiers favorite, most prized belongings in the majority of their travels together. It had been loved.

He had to bite back the taste in his mouth as Jaskiers scent washed against his senses. Another quick stab. 

There was just too much blood. 

The shirt had been torn-  
—

The dwarven path in all its faults had been where the single foot steps had led him, the faintest traces of their yesterday voyage still visible to his eyes even without the aid of a potion. Slowly he realized whatever had happened, which he still made very little sense of no matter what he considered or for how long, that somehow Jaskier appeared to be walking on his own, and without others help or rather encouragement. 

The path was narrow, nearly twice as it had been their first go at it, Geralt could hardly imagine his bard clinging onto its uneven surface, though the blood smeared had been proof just as much as it was worrisome. It was enough to keep going.

He was still bleeding.  
—

He couldn’t help but nearly fall face first onto the ground the moment he’d made his way to solid footing, stopping only moments before hand. It was quiet, his head hurt and he didn’t like it. He blamed that for his questionable agility.

The mouth of the cave was mostly undisturbed as far as he could see, though that had only fooled him for a moment at best. He could smell Jeskier everywhere, the worm lavender scent of his soap nearly completely faded yet as ever distinct, the faintest sip of jasmine on his lips and again like some twisted clockwork, blood.

The throbbing in his temples was sure of it. Convinced without doubt. It was both intoxicating as it was frankly sickening. Worrying. Slow and building like a hangover from too much elixir.

Geralt didn’t know why it held such influence, the longer he strained to follow it, the worse he felt. It hardly made enough sense to him. For a moment he chalked it up to his nerves, then a voice in his head pointed out absently that only a few things usually did such things, and as a Witcher they were all already known to him, like the back of his hand, or a bible to a priest.

The list mostly consisted of creatures he knew not to inhabit the mountain side, of herbs used in a select pantheon of poisons and craft, and things that held no real bearing, like sirens vomit, pickled drowner's spleen, like Renfri-  
—

He noted how welcomed the feel of the soft soil under foot was, and how under different means he would have listened to the joyous ramblings praising it, and how he would have agreed wholeheartedly with much less thought given.

He was glad to leave that part of the mountain.

He pressed forward grunting as he went, urging himself not to stop, not from the mild pain but the rage and confusion that swam in his chest. He never experienced a lot of things he realized, not in the way a human would, love, lust, hunger, boredom, all not unknown, but in different capacities, as all of his kind suffered. Disconnection as Eskel had explained it one night drowning in mead after a particularly rough hunt, with warmth and a growing distance in his eyes, romanticizing such endeavors he himself had chided behind curved lips mocking the man.

Geralt grounded his teeth, and for the first time in a while paused. 

“Jaskier?” he yelled at nothing, and at everything all the same, spinning around on his heels. “Damnit if you don’t hear me. Dammit if you've gone and gotten yourself lost!”

What was it? He asked himself again, searching every which way, what’s wrong? What am I sensing-

He suspected he already knew.  
—

Night fell quickly and with it the promise of rain clearly getting closer and closer with every breath he sucked in. Normally such things would hardly alarm him. His kind suffered so few ailments, inconveniences he learned to call them, that up until the more recent parts of his life admittedly besides roach, he’d all but forgotten the fear and unease most cursed to travel understood. 

Injuries only made things worse.

He could almost picture it, the exact moment that such concerns had made themselves suddenly relevant in his life. The most likely beginning he could fathom anyhow. The bard, as he only referred to him as at the time had been once again following him, or rather accompanying him as the boy explained eagerly, and had been doing so faithfully and annoyingly for the last four contracts, through five separate towns, though this time unlike the others, and not going unnoticed by the Witcher was staggering nearly a full yard, compared to his usual spot always either steps behind or immediately in front.

The soft, hardly audible whines began early in the day, the first red flag of sorts, only as his loud voice finally wavered, then disappeared altogether, Geralt assumed at first the young man realized his words were pointless, ignored, unwanted and had smiled at the small victory in his grasp. The joy as it was so often in life, proved easily short lived. Abandoned.

The whining became whimpers, the whimpers became wheezing, by midday alone Geralt found himself against his better, more usual judgement compelled as it were to slow his own pace, and to keep half an ear on the human, and worst still by nightfall itself the bard had hardly the strength it took to lay out his own bed roll.

He collected the firewood, set the flame, and quickly made two shares of food without once asking or demanding help. It was odd to say the least, not a word, only a whistle in the lungs of the other, where words usually sprouted like weeds.

The bowl was left practically untouched in the boy's trembling hands. 

It had dawned on the Witcher earlier what was happening, and most importantly why. Days before as they had just left the last village it had been raining something fierce, and when it wasn’t pouring down it fell steadily and continued well into the morning as a light fitful mist.

He had expected the boy to turn back from either the rain or the mud, or perhaps a combination of both, but instead the young man spoke louder as the onslaught dampened most senses, and walked faster and harder against the moving layers of ground. He refused to accept an out. Geralt didn’t know what to think.

The shimmery glossy skin, the pink nose, the reddened eyes. Heat permeating. He was at the start of feverish, yet despite that had managed to as always follow, albeit very slowly.

“Geralt” the boy choked out, blushing at how uneven he sounded to his own ears, clearly embarrassed by it. “Don’t suppose there’s a town nearby?”

He nearly jumped at the bard's sudden voice appearing again, though this time much smaller and constantly wavering up and down like crashing waves. It lacked his normal confidence. “Two days west.” he said simply, still dumbstruck by how foolish and how determined he was.

“Aren’t we traveling north?” 

“Yes.”

“Okay.” the boy paused thoughtfully, setting his meal down. “How far north, till the nearest town then?”

Geralt leaned back staring at the darkened trees beyond the clearing, lip curved into a frown, something not unknown to his features, as he was often reminded. “It would have been about a week on horse.”

“Oh, yes I see.” Jaskier said, hands folded on his lap, little attention paid to the other. “Very, very good, if we leave earlier tomorrow then normal, first light preferably, then our journey should make up for today’s, umm step back.”

Geralt grinded his teeth, unsure of if it had more to do with being interrupted or with the bard's own lack of self preservation, and unwittingly or purposely calling into question whether or not he himself would act upon it. He would ultimately, and equally urged himself not to question how easily he came to that decision.

“Morning comes early.” He stood up, a part of him realized to hide his face with the scapegoat of feeding another pile of branches and the like into the already plump pit, the flames dancing and biting at the offering like a starved pet regardless of its size. “Our rations are nearly out, not that I expected you to know, since you never help with setting up a meal unless it’s of wild edible foliage, and other things you find, meaning that a slight change in plans are appearing, highly favorable.” He paused allowing the boy a moment to better understand. “We should be there by nightfall, if need be?”

He kept his back to the bard, ears picking up to the little noises escaping him. His heart in particular rattling differently then mere moments beforehand, heavier yet restrained.

“That's very irresponsible of you, Rivia.”

He jerked back around and stared at the bard surprised by his words, that of whom had laid down, small arms covering his face. Most of it. “Thank you.”

He pretended not to see the tears.  
—

As soon as it started raining what little he could see or hear was easily cut in half. It was cold and dense and he understood how bad the situation was becoming with every moment. The sun was gone, the sky clouded, no usual light source to depend on, and Jaskier was likely somewhere equally cold, dark and alone, or worse- well he didn’t want to think about that. He wouldn’t allow himself to.

He reasoned he had a choice to make, as everything that could go wrong did within less than a day's time.

The elixirs were immediately effective, and within moments he had both forgotten about the climbing nausea and the heap of things on his back, as he went onward suddenly renewed. He had lost track of how many he had taken, only knowing he didn't entirely care about the repercussion of doing so. Eye sight, hearing and energy just off the top filled and overflowing.

The entire woods was blooming with noise, the animals, the hundred of thousands of water droplets coursing down and everything in between. It could have been overwhelming, should have been like any other time, but at the moment it gave him something to cling onto. It was oddly comforting knowing that even the slightest sound might alert him.

He still couldn’t hear him, or see anything that was helpful, the trace of blood swept away, muted, but he already knew, guessed where he had been heading. It became obvious. Jaskier intentionally or not was following their exact path that had led them there, and maybe it was a gamble, but that meant their old camp, and that was something Geralt could find with or without help.

If the circumstances were different he imagined himself on a night similar setting up shelter, drying off slowly and sleeping until morning or at least staying somewhere decently covered, the idea usually tempting knowing little can be done when it comes to tracking in such unlikeable conditions, that anything else usually led to less than wanted situations, but even as he slipped and picked himself up from the ground for the third time, it never really crossed his mind as a possibility, rather a fleeting memory.

The trees were getting more scarce, no longer clusters hugging each other. 

Before he knew it he stood at a ledge overlooking the clearing by a good fifteen foot, his entire body drenched, the bags, the only thing remotely safe was Jaskier's case, something that didn’t happen by accident alone.

His eyes darted around the line of trees then slowly towards the center of the opening. He felt it in his stomach before he saw it.

He’d know it anywhere, lilac and gooseberries, he could feel it in the air. 

His blood went cold, several tents, a complete and new camp set where they had been. Several smaller ones that he immediately recognized as what the dwarves had brought with them and had been using, but that wasn’t what stopped him. 

“Yen?” he stepped forward almost losing his footing again, he could hardly hear his own voice. His blood was boiling as his thoughts moved and jumped as rapidly as worms in mud. “What are you doing here?”

He could see it for a moment, an image, how it could suddenly possibly make sense. Add up. Fear moving in him in ways he didn’t like. Weren't familiar. He couldn’t find a trace of anyone other than the bard at any point helping him, yet despite everything that had clearly happened to the man, he somehow managed forward at a considerable pace. What if he wasn’t alone? What if Yenniffer had gone too far? He bit the inside of his lip. He wasn’t an idiot, despite helping Jaskier in the beginning, over time she held a certain level of animosity towards him, which at times had seemed fair, understandable even, yet not overlooked.

The dwarves were there as well, which he couldn’t understand considering that even before their last moments on the mountain, she had barely kept her contempt for them a secret. 

The rain was suddenly comparable to knives on his skin, he didn’t know if it was because of his heightened senses or because for the first time he was suddenly no longer under the near complete coverage of the trees. He growled under his breath as he managed his way down nearing the large tent, eyeing the soft yellow glow emanating from the sides. 

He could see more than one shadow, several, seven that he could count and be sure of. Yen wouldn’t have allowed any of them to step foot into it. He hesitated for only a moment.

If anyone knew where he was, he’d be damned if he didn’t believe it was them.

He tore open the drapes that worked as the door and upon doing so was met by the sight of all seven of the dwarves that had traveled with them with the hope of gain mere hours ago. The bed littered in their belongings, weapons, bags and the sort hanging from it, leaned against it, most of them still sitting on one of the many small carpets that lined most of the room. 

Yen wasn’t there, and closer as he was now he understood his mistake. 

The tent was gushing the last of the magic she had used to generate it. Create it. She wasn’t there and probably never was, it was simply the ghost smell on a garment. 

For a moment no one spoke a word, they all remained mostly unmoving like little statues. Eyes at first comically wide. He could only distantly imagine what he looked like to them, his eyes black, deep veins traveling through his body also pulsating black tar through his every limb. It was undoubtedly the first time that they'd ever seen a Witcher using their potions. 

Unsettling fear, for a moment he could see it on them.

He was finally the monster they were undoubtedly told of.

“You stole her tent.” Geralt eyed the bald one, Zoltan if his memory served, doing the best he could to stabilize the venom in his voice. “What else did you manage to take in so little time?” 

“What's it to you, Witcher?” Theo the same blonde one from before said wirily. “What do you care if we took something that was left behind. Abandoned? Unwanted. It's going to be used anyway.”

Geralt took a step inside, noting how the same one that had prompted him in his search hours before, and had also clearly implied the events of the day had cringed back slightly at his movement. He smiled at that, the same sort that Jaskier often compared to a feral dog.

“Get on with what you mean,” Zoltan bellowed. “What is it?”

“Where is Jaskier?” he said slowly albeit loudly. “I know it isn't possible that you don't know. He came this way. You also took one of the paths, unbroken ones at that, meaning you've been here longer than the rain has. You’ve seen him.”

“We haven’t seen no bard, White wolf.” one the other nameless ones said. “We haven’t.”

Geralt tilted his head, suddenly frowning. “Are you really going to lie to me?” He waited a moment focusing his mind, mentally shoving away any speck of Yenniffer that lingered. His eyes shot open and he couldn’t help the noise he made, above everything else he finally found it. Blood. “I can smell him on you.” 

“What does that matter?” the blonde spoke up, raising his chin much to the vast majority of the room's dismay. “And if he did cross our path, what on earth makes you believe for a godforsaken second that he actually wants to see you?” he paused, gaining more confidence as the rest of his fellows readied themselves. “Or that we'd say a word, just a word of it to you for that matter, as if any of us are unaware of why said bard, left.”

He stepped closer to Theo, to many things racing in his mind, his hand reaching for the hilt of his steel blade, this time causing the dwarf to stumble out of response and knocking things over as he did so. 

A small ugly blanket toppled onto the ground.

Geralt had no sooner opened his mouth when he slammed it shut, all blood draining from him as he saw it, Jaskiers lute laid off the side of the bed, once covered and propped in such a way that he had hardly paid any mind to it.

“Where did you get that!” he suddenly dropped everything he was carrying, his voice hardly anything recognizable but a growl. “Where the fuck did you get that!?”

The bald one stopped the others from grabbing their weapons.

“The bard left.” Zoltan said simply. “We didn’t assume you made it your priority to return it to him at the time. That's why you smell him.”

Within a moment it was in his hands and all the others there were suddenly either red faced or fidgeting. He could only hear his own heart.

As he held it nothing fazed him, the silk body was unharmed and for a moment unconnected to the real world, he was grateful to be able to present that to the bard. A simple token. An apology without words that he realized wouldn't be enough, but would be a start. His thumb caressed the neck, mimicking the same foolishness that he accused the other of doing so frequently, understanding the value in a way-

His thumb had scraped something. A dark patch dried onto its smooth surface.

The same sickly smell.

“Either you know where he is or you did this!” he twisted around. “Make your damned choice while you still have one.”

They had already grabbed a few of their weapons and had backed off slightly, and in an instant Geralt had decided as quick as silver he didn’t care if he had to kill any of them-

“He doesn’t want to see you!” one of the nameless ones said. “He refused to even stay here.”

He took another step.

“We’ve sworn to protect him!” said Theo.

“Sworn who-“

He stopped dead in his tracks, sword halfway extended, above the pitter patter of the rain bouncing off the top he could hear something. Tiny. Almost nonexistent. He closed his eyes for hardly a split second then bolted into action. Crying.

He sat down the lute carefully and ran outside of the tent staring into the darkness. He spun around completely ignoring the others, as all the noise bounced in and out of his ears. 

“Jaskier!” he screamed unashamed, his body practically vibrating. Shivering in a way he knew immediately wasn’t from the frigid air.

He could tell that the dwarves were speaking, though unmoving as they did so, something he hardly had time to consider. 

He couldn’t tell where it came from.

“Jaskier!” he yelled, his wet hair blinding him.

If he believed in gods in that moment he would have prayed to them. He would have begged them with all his mind and soul.

“Geralt?” it was a question and it was faint and breathless, and it was coming from the small tent placed on a slight hill that he’d already passed. 

“Jaskier?”


End file.
